


Untitled

by Morncreek



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, Human, Jethro Tulling, Mystery, Night Elf, Paladin, Raemaia, druid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1354189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morncreek/pseuds/Morncreek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Original characters.) Is it possible? Is there such a thing as a clean slate, or is our past carved and stained into us? And, if there is no such thing as a fresh chance, is that necessarily a bad thing?</p><p>OR</p><p>The Cenarion Circle say Raemaia is a druid, if a bit... lapsed in her membership. Raemaia says she -was- a druid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warcraft 1

**Author's Note:**

> Raemaia was my first real Alliance alt(ernate) character. I think I leveled her nearly to 30 before my interest waned and I settled for using her to check the Alliance Auction House for rare items and recipes. Raemaia the alt was deleted a long time ago in order to make room on my main realm (the game server that I call home) for one of the new character/class combinations in the Cataclysm expansion. However, I never entirely forgot about her.
> 
> As with every character I create, Raemaia has a background. It was perhaps the least fleshed out of all my characters up to that point, but it existed nonetheless.
> 
> This story started out years ago with myself taking a break from college homework that I was stuck on. It gradually evolved over a long time to something resembling an actual plot. And then I began using WoW Model Viewer to create outfits for her. Oh dear. Anyway, this story is my little toy in the Warcraft playground. It isn't pretty and it's kinda worn, but it's mine. There is no outline, there is no schedule.
> 
> _____________________________________________

Raemaia was cold. She rubbed her bare arms to try to get some warmth back, but it didn't help. Her gaze returned to the open sea, and she shivered again. She'd never liked water; almost hated it now, in fact. She loved running through the meadows, and hiking aimlessly through the homeland woods - but she absolutely refused to swim (or use a bath, preferring instead to sponge-bathe or use a steambath). This was rather odd behavior - no, not eccentric, one couldn’t live on Azeroth without learning to accommodate very strange idiosyncrasies - in light of the fact that she was a druid, formerly of the Cenarion Circle.

Fortunately, none of the crew or passengers knew this. Her garments and various visible accoutrement were rough, well-worn and generally like any other plain traveller. "Nothing special to see here, now scat," was what her appearance and demeanor stated to the world. It had worked well so far - the crew and other passengers kept their business to themselves and Raemaia kept to hers.

"Excuse me, miss?"

At least, until now.

Raemaia shifted slightly to show that she had heard him, but wasn't desiring a conversation. It was rude, but she did not particularly care. She had purposefully left behind social niceties like that years ago when last upon the land of Teldrassil.

*

Jethro wasn't surprised or offended at the way he was acknowledged. He knew how treasured quiet could be, and this night elf seemed to especially value it. Still, it must be lonely at times. It was one of his convictions that people should not leave others to their problems simply because they wanted to shut the world out (and shut themselves in). Not too surprising, then, was his chosen calling of Paladin.

He took a step forward to bring himself even on the lady's left side. He carefully explained, "As part of my payment for the voyage, I help with the laundry. I was carrying cleaned blankets back to storage when I saw you." The elf's head turned at this point. Her brown eyes emanated a slight glow from within them as did all eyes of her race. It was kind of... creepy. The paladin extended the pile of folded blankets. She would likely prefer to take one herself rather than have one handed to her. _Definitely prickly_ , he thought, as he waited for her response.

*

The human was wordy. ( _"Loquacious, Raemaia. Honestly, you cannot be in the habit of using plebeian colloquialism to communicate concepts! Inexactness is the source of many otherwise avoidable contentions."_ )

"I do not require it."

The shorter-than-average male canted his clean-cut head in apparent confusion. "I did not see you shivering?" Raemaia, in uncharacteristic display of emotion, let loose an explosive frustrated sigh. She was tempted to tell him exactly that, but could not - if there were anything beside water that ruffled her moonkin feathers ( _"Raemaia!"_ ), it was liars and lying. ( _"This is your duty and honor! You_ cannot _choose_ this _and not do_ that _!"_ ) This human man was skipping rocks across a years-spanning lake, disturbing the depths of things she never wanted to surface.

"It's always your choice, my lady, whether to take one or not."

The words started Raemaia from her reverie and she immediately turned her head to look down at the other passenger's eyes. Sincerity. _My choice..._

The druid smoothly extended a toned limb and retrieved a dull-green woolly blanket from on top of the pile.

*

Jethro didn't smile, as he figured that the prickly night elf would - more likely than not - take the display the wrong way. But, he did allow dark skin to crinkle around even darker eyes in simple happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Raemaia - Jethro has that effect on everyone. It's actually the reason why he's on that ship. /wink


	2. Chapter 2

_There was a rocking motion to the streams of colors. They brushed past the face gently at first, but then they began pounding the sensitive skin, and burning and cutting. The colors twisted and yanked at the sinuous raven locks, breaking strands in half or pulling them out to the root in the scalp. The streamers gained cohesion and thickness and_ pressure _\- and now they were all one color, an oozing screaming accusing crimson--_

 

***

Captain Harold Clepe, aged 43 years and the scars to prove it, liked what he saw. It was an uncommon mood as the crew of the _Ezra_ would readily attest to (outside of his earshot, of course), with as much matter-of-fact as though describing from which direction the sun rose each morning.

The stiff wind billowed the large sails of his ship to their fullest, the salty tang almost enough to flavor the food from the kitchens just by blowing upon it. The rigging was quiet, which meant that everyone had paid stiff attention to the example the captain had made of the lazy fool who _hadn’t_ secured the rigging. Harold had narrowly missed adding another scar to his collection.

 _Not that scars bother me_ , he mused. _It’s a sign of good living. No, what would’ve bothered me is_ from whom _I got it - gods spit on that man and any coin he might ever make._ Harold felt a tingle of anxiety at the recollection of the incident. Not at the near-miss, but that it could have been another of his crew in his place... one that might not have reacted as quickly as he had.

Bah. He had a good wind, good sky, and a good load of shipments and passengers. The captain refused to dwell upon the matter any further.

Speaking of passengers, what was that paladin up to? Jethro Tulling had come aboard six days prior and seemed to have no inclination of deboarding anytime soon. The coin was legitimate - couldn’t get more legitimate than the Crown purse - but what was he waiting on... or who was he waiting for?

Storybook adventures liked to portray certain ship captains as always unruffled, never asking questions as long as the coin was good, and coming down like the Exodar on Azeroth upon any who dared to renege upon the agreed terms. Harold knew better, or, as his mother had been wont to say, “Cowpies.” _Always ask questions without seeming to ask, never turn your back to anyone who’s smiling, never be unarmed, assume and prepare for the worst - and make certain your crew knows and does the same._

“Aw cowpies.” As soon as he was somewhere private, he was going to knock on wood. Maybe six times instead of three, just for good measure. Something hinky was stirring in the zone, and Captain Harold Clepe of _Ezra_ would rather the seas stay calm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harold Clepe is an anagram of placeholder. Captain Placeholder, verily here is thy tribute. (Go look on YouTube.)
> 
> The ship name is also a tribute. Ezra was a very ill child and Blizzard Entertainment in coordination with Make-A-Wish Foundation helped his wish come true. Rest in peace, Ephoenix.
> 
> See:  
> http://www.wowpedia.org/Ezra_Chatterton  
> http://www.wowhead.com/npc=15580#comments  
> http://wow.joystiq.com/tag/ezra-chatterton/


	3. Chapter 3

 

 _\--fast staining the powerful waters. The inexorable grip of the rapids was brutally crushing them against stones and wood debris. He was losing strength to fight the force pummeling him, while his companion had already lost that battle - only his straining grip on her thick hair kept them together. True unconsciousness - a death sentence - would soon follow if neither of them could get at the air above the surging torrent._ Elune...please... _As if in answer, he saw an opportunity..._  
  


-==-  


Jethro startled awake. He had dozed off in his chair. Again. He sighed, stood up, and stretched - then winced as several aches made themselves known. He was old enough and had lived hard enough that he really shouldn’t be sleeping in anything other than a bed. He smiled at the memory of Justine scolding him with those exact words. Jethro had nodded in agreement, but his wink at her while doing it had left her frowning.

_“Jethro.”_

_“I know, my love.” He strode to where she stood in the small kitchen and gently took her hands. “I know it is because you care. Nay, it is not nagging. You are right.” He kissed the hands he held, but sighed. “The Crown calls for my service, however.”_

_“I love you, Jethro.”  Words that contained so much meaning. Love, sadness, frustration, trust, faith, confusion, concern, curiosity... acceptance. Justine was not an adventurer nor sworn to King and country. Many had wondered, at the beginning of their marriage, how he and she could sustain their relationship while being so... different. But they weren’t different, not at all._

_“I love you more, Justine.” A promise. This truly would be his last adventure, as the King himself promised that Jethro would be honorably released to civilian life after this final mission._

_He released her hands and kissed her sweet lips, then. She brought her hands up to lovingly stroke his face, and kissed him back..._

 

Jethro returned from the memory with a fond smile. People commonly wondered how he could smile so often, or why. The answer was always, simply, Justine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, I don’t know if it is clear by now, but this is going to develop very slowly. I don’t have an outline and the characters are not fleshed out. Think of it like this - you’re discovering more about these characters and their motivations at the same time I am! :D
> 
> … if you D: that’s ok too. Just be gentle with me please while critiquing. Everything I write in the story has a purpose, even if it won’t be obvious for a long time. Plus, I bruise easy.


End file.
